


Severance

by asuralucier



Series: The Boy From Nowhere [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Jossed Backstory, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pre-JW 1, bb!Wick got balls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 17:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18969676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”I suppose I should offer you some form of severance,” Winston says. “Is there anything you would like from me?””Anything?””Well, within reason. I’m not donating you my kidney. I’ve only got one left.”Basically, John asks Winston for a blow job. Because why not.





	Severance

**Author's Note:**

> A brief follow-up to 'The Ghost and the Darkness', which is listed as part one of this series. Somehow, it feels like a waste if I didn't have them get naughty in a car, so uh. Enjoy? But if you just want to read snarky pwp this probably stands well enough on its own even if some of the context will be missing.

When John pulls up to the curb, he is wearing a fitted suit that wakes up Winston’s nether regions in a way that is just about embarrassing. John has also, it seems, minded Winston’s earlier advice about his hair and stubble. There’s only a light dusting of facial hair on his chin and John has taken the time to tie up his hair so that it flatters the long shape of his face. 

“Quit staring at me and get in,” John says. “I’m technically not supposed to park here.” Nearby, there’s a sign that says as much. 

“So you’re not,” Winston assents and does. “I hardly recognize you.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure it was only that.” 

Normally, John is not so talkative. It can only be surmised that the young man is in a good mood. And why wouldn’t he be? Today is the day the rest of his life starts. This is where it gets interesting; John will get to leave anything and everything resembling the mundane behind -- including driving around an old man at a moment’s notice. 

Besides, no one has tried to kill him for two weeks now, and Winston knows that these things come and go. 

If Winston is honest, he hadn’t expected John to answer his text. They’ve not really had the conversation yet, whereby John is released, both from Winston’s keeping and from Charlie’s graveyard roster for other things. However, Winston is mostly of the opinion that men often talk too much, and the only things that are worth knowing are things that don’t have to be said. 

Winston changes the subject; without any prompting, John has steered the car en route towards his apartment.

“When is your appointment with Viggo Tarasov?” 

“Three o’ clock at his restaurant in Brighton Beach,” says John. 

“You’ll do well,” Winston tells him. 

“I’ll do great,” John corrects him in turn with a loose grin. Oddly, since Winston doesn’t take much stock in bloated overconfidence, be it John’s or anyone else’s, John’s levity is almost infectious. 

“Just don’t pour him a treble vodka,” Winston says. “Viggo can’t hold his drink and you don’t want to accidentally shoot him where you shouldn’t. Tempting as it may be.” 

John looks at him a bit sideways as he slows to a stop in front of a red light, “I’ll...take that under advisement too, I guess.” 

 

John parks the car in the near empty car park adjoining Winston’s building and neither of them move. At length, Winston unclicks his seat belt and gestures, “I suppose this is good-bye, Jonathan.” 

“Is it?” John blinks. “But I’ll still see you. At the Continental, or whatever.” 

“Yes, but we won’t be alone there. That place has eyes.” 

John seems to consider this, shrugs, “I guess you have a point.” 

“I always do,” Winston says, but instead of feeling smug about it, he takes in the deflated slump of John’s shoulders and suddenly feels sorry. So he says, “I suppose I should offer you some form of severance. Is there anything you would like from me?” 

John seems to wake, unfold again and Winston thinks he can see, if he looks very closely, an intimate shadow pressing down into the young man’s bones, “Anything?” 

Winston thinks, “Well, within reason. I’m not donating you my kidney. I’ve only got one left.” 

“You have one kidney,” John looks like he doesn’t quite believe him. 

“I needed money,” Winston says. Before John can ask him anything else, he adds. “It was a long time ago. A different life. A life where I concentrated on the things I needed rather than the things I wanted.” 

“...Can I see? The scar, I mean.” 

Winston considers this and concedes. It is such an odd question he can’t help but feel compelled to grant John’s request and see where things go. “All right.” 

But it is an awkward operation, to unbuckle his belt and then to untuck his shirt, and then to lift fabric just enough to expose the crude scar near his left hip. It takes Winston a moment to realize that it’s still there -- it’s not something he’s thought about recently. 

“That looks like somebody just gauged it out of you,” says John. He almost sounds impressed.

“They probably did. I was, thankfully, unconscious. Or very drunk.” Winston finds he doesn’t remember which. They must have asked his preference back then; he doesn't remember that either. 

Winston suddenly notices how close John is to him; he can smell the man’s breath. He can’t tell what it smells like, but it’s not unpleasant. 

And then John leans forward an inch and kisses him and that is not unpleasant either. In fact, it’s the opposite. 

“...That’s what you want?” 

John’s eyes are dark with promise, “Not really.” 

“Then, what do you want, Jonathan? You’ve seen my scar; that is a very small thing.” Winston allows himself to trace his thumb over the line of John’s jaw and over the dusting of his stubble. He can feel through his skin, John stilling and tracing the touch, tucking it away for later consumption. 

Or at least, Winston can hope. 

“Is it a very small thing?” John asks, curiously. He presses his thumb against the raised tissue and Winston feels very keenly the loss of his kidney from years and years ago. Decades, even. 

“Well, look at it.” 

John gives him a look, “Not what I meant.” 

Winston’s breathing stops, “I know. I suppose. Yes. It is a small thing, for you.” 

 

Silence, born of an impossible precipice, stretches between them. They don’t pull back, but they are not moving forward either. Finally, John drops his head onto Winston’s shoulder, “...Would you --” there’s a small stutter between his words, “ -- Would you perform fellatio on me?” 

Winston twitches in at least two places, “Beg pardon?” 

John moves, so he can look Winston square in the eyes, “Okay. So. I didn’t want to just say blow me. It sounds...” He shrugs, “I don’t like the way it sounds. But yeah. Blow me?” 

New York must be having a very off day because when Winston looks around, there still aren’t any cars. But maybe that’s just as well, “Why not?” 

 

There’s a part of Winston that regrets deeply, John’s having to hightail it to Brighton Beach to prostrate himself in front of Viggo Tarasov. He thinks about inviting the man up for a drink, and doing things properly, as such these things can be done. 

But still, they adjourn to the backseat of the car and John watches as Winston pulls down his trousers, so laughably careful and cautious that he thinks, that John must want to laugh. However, Winston understands very intimately what it means to appear a certain way, and it is important to him that John understands this, too. 

“I said blow me, I didn’t say --” 

John’s trousers and his shorts are bunched around his ankles. Winston is glad to see that John’s erection, youthful, flushed, and just waking up, might actually want him to _perform fellatio_ rather than it being some kind of joke. 

“You’re seeing Viggo in two hours and the rest of your life will start,” Winston says, although he doesn’t quite think that John needs telling. “You’re not walking in there like some sort of lowly sybarite.” 

“A what?” 

“A playboy, in the modern parlance.” 

“...I don’t think it’s _that_ modern,” John all but leers at him for his geriatric transgression, and Winston thinks that it’s the most attractive thing that he’s ever seen in a very long time. Hopefully the boy will put that look to good use in future. 

“Anyway, it’s a nice suit, and I have a strict principle against ruining nice suits,” Winston leans forward and presses his mouth a few inches below John’s belly button and feels languid, sensual heat coil and gather south.

John sighs and curls a hand in Winston’s hair, “So buy me another one. You know you want to.” 

Winston rather does want to but this is neither the time nor the place, “You don’t have any idea how long it takes to buy a good suit, do you?” He says, and takes John into his mouth before he can say anything else to tempt Winston into doing something more inadvisable than just blowing John Wick in the back of a rental. 

 

And the most terrifying thing about all this is that John just might. 

Something absurd: the way that John lifts his hips to welcome and dig into the warmth of Winston’s mouth makes him feel _young_. He’s out of practice, but Winston thinks that John must be getting decent mileage out of the novelty surrounding all this and that counts for something. It’s not just anyone or any given day that sees Winston just giving away oral sex as severance. 

But that’s not to say that Winston hasn’t done his time. This means that he’s inadvertently spent time sucking up (on his knees) so he’s not so unfamiliar with the position that he finds himself in right now. But the intricacies of the position isn’t nearly as forthcoming. 

After all, that too, is a lifetime ago and there is something equally absurd about fumbling with his tongue and then just giving up and hollowing his throat until John hits his tonsils. At least Winston remembers how to do that. Sometimes, that was the only thing that’d mattered. 

Somehow, without prying into why, Winston is relieved about that, too. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” John groans, low and the sound and what it means rushes tellingly to the tip of Winston’s own dick.

But there isn’t any time. 

“...Hey, Winston.” from somewhere near the reality of the world, John’s voice. 

Winston is loathed to let go of John, not when he’s just gotten started. But then, curiosity wins over and he lets go with a bit of a wet pop and grips him, feeling the slicked hardness twitch between his fingers. “ -- What?” 

And Winston has next to no idea how to read that look. It’s halfway between any given point on a thousand things, but then John touches his cheek, pressing his fingers meaningfully into Winston’s bones. 

“I wish we had more time,” John says, very softly. 

“We don’t,” Winston says, “That is the reality, Jonathan. You’ll be fighting lunch hour traffic, and --” 

“That’s not what I mean, either,” John looks at him. 

“I know that, too,” Winston says. “But this isn’t a conversation worth having. Not now.” 

 

In the end, John’s orgasm comes quietly. He comes as if he’s gasping for air, as if he wants there to be more but there simply isn’t. His fingers are iron in Winston's hair and given time, Winston might have enjoyed aligning that discomfort alongside something else. There is, of course, _more_ , but not to be found here. 

Winston swallows; it is not as if he’s planned to, but John has caught him by surprise in so many ways that it hadn’t really occurred to him to consider the obvious. Besides, he’s conscious that he hasn’t got anywhere sensible to spit. 

And John, flushed and breathing quick, has his eyes closed. Somehow, it’s worth it. 

Winston drops a kiss near his thigh and feels the warm skin against his mouth. Another very small thing. 

“Don’t suppose you want to come up for a drink,” Winston says, although he knows perfectly well what the answer will be. Should be. John just fixes him with a long look, like he’s drinking in and savoring the last of some exquisite summer wine. It seems that at least, at last, they understand one another. 

John shakes his head, “No. I really shouldn’t drink and drive.”


End file.
